


Heart to Heart

by MoonlitGraffiti



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlitGraffiti/pseuds/MoonlitGraffiti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Midnight, Donna fears she's lost the Doctor to his innermost self. Until he visits her, needing something that's never been offered before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart to Heart

She’s almost relieved when she hears him enter. A sliver of light bleeds into the room, the door creaking slowly as it opens, and his shadow looms in the light, blocking it out as he slips inside. She softly speaks his name, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he silently glides across the floor in the dark with grace she never thought he possessed. She has no idea how he avoids tripping, but before long she feels him sit on the end of her bed, silent and heavy. It’s alarming that he hasn’t spoken. This silence has lasted since they returned to the TARDIS following his nightmare of an experience, stranded on a glittering, diamond planet. For all its sparkle, however, it was dark. And that darkness seeped into him, swallowing up the light inside of him. She implored him to speak since they returned, until her bones grew weary and begged for rest. Thinking she could do him no good, she wished him well and retired to her room, were she would be alone. Or so she’d thought. 

She can feel him grip the sheets in his tense fists. He doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he hasn’t recovered, and truly, she can’t blame him. What he went through was horrible, traumatic, but she doesn’t know what she can do. He went through it alone, he’ll try to fight it alone. It’s just like him to try and get through something by himself first and ask for help later. So she slowly sits up, not saying a word, and gently reaches out. Her fingers just barely brush the back of his hand, but he recoils as if she’s made of fire. Unwilling to let him retreat into himself, she tries again, gently taking his hand into her own. Even in his fingers, she can feel the tenseness woven into every fiber of his being, the terror, the haunting. They twitch once, and she holds his hand tighter. He’s scared. She knows it, even if he would never admit to it. His brain is electrified with remnant horror, and though she can’t see his eyes, she knows she’d see it there too. She loosens her grip slightly on his hand, and feels him relax a little. And then, she knows. Why he’s here, what he needs. Her commanding, independent demeanor can be left at the door. After all, he’s already lost his; it’d be cruel to take advantage. 

All it takes is a slight murmur of encouragement from her. She hears him move, feels the sheets loosen as he releases them. There’s a feeling of increasing weight near her legs, and she senses his presence approach, and suddenly the softness of his lips touching her own. 

When they kiss, they’re slow, gentle. Their lips barely brush. He’s frightened, he’s careful. She doesn’t dare push anything closer than he wants to; this time, it’s his decision, his time. His lips are cool, meeting hers with perfection, and she can’t help but lean into the kiss, clinging to the moment. His hearts race in his chest, nearly bursting out of his ribcage, and she feels a tremor travel through his arms, his hands, his fingers. He breaks the kiss with a shaky breath and pulls away slightly, beginning to feel tendrils of emotion branching out within him. He’s scared, relieved, lost. So he grips her hand tighter, and her breath catches, reminding herself that this is for him. Only him. 

It’s not long until he leans in once more and captures her lips, kissing her just as tenderly as before. He’s so gentle, so kind with her, she thinks. Something in him keeps him from doing as he pleases, and she knows as much. Her hand pulls away from his and joins her free one in his hair, pulling him closer to her, kissing him tightly while she presses her body closer to his. He takes it in stride, embracing her in return, aware she has consented, and finally lets himself go. 

They kiss, deeply, passionately. He’s released himself from his constraints and lets everything pour into her without abandon. He doesn’t need to fear. And she can taste that fear, his desire, his rawest emotions rushing forth from deep within him. His silent screams spill into her, unfiltered, scared, and everything he won’t say out loud. 

In the dark, hands roam, entangled in hair, resting on shoulder blades, cupping faces. She pulls at his lip, yet despite how commanding she can be, how in control, she relaxes, stretches out, and submits to him, lets him take control. He leans over her, one knee between her thighs and balancing himself with his hands. She lays open beneath him, and while they kiss, she finds the buttons of his pants, makes quick work of them, then slides them off. He moves impatiently, but holds himself steady. It takes strength for him to hold back, to not tear away her clothing as she removes his, to allow her to reveal herself to him on her own. 

Her skin is beautiful, practically perfect, even in near darkness. She is a beautiful woman, one who doesn’t know her own worth, who doesn’t know who she really is. When the last of the material vanishes and her being is shown to him, he cannot breathe. She bites her lip and tries her best not to let the self-consciousness she feels come to the surface, fights the urge to cross her arms over her chest and bring her legs together. But all he sees is how lovely he finds her, and how he cannot believe how she feels about herself. He thinks she’s brilliant, absolutely, stunningly brilliant. Unbeknownst to him, she feels mutually, unsure if she can believe such an incredible man could be real. 

He kisses her skin, marking her as his own, feeling every twitch and reaction of her body, and catches her mouth in his once more. Soon, he too is stripped of what he has left, and they meet again. They find each other, watch carefully, trying to breathe, far too emotional than either would like to admit; they can scarcely believe what’s happening, but are in too much of a fog to care. But a small voice still nags at the back of their minds; it’s wrong, it’s horrific. But nothing has felt more right, either. 

Softly, gently, they kiss once more. He prepares. 

Then, he lowers himself, and she winces, her grip on his arms tightening, and he freezes immediately. Fear invades his mind, infecting and suffocating it. He’s hurt her. Time drags by far too slowly, his hearts crawling further up his throat with every second that passes. But gradually, she comes out of it and touches him lightly, pulls him a little closer, and closes her lips. In an instant, the infection of his mind begins to subside. He breathes deeply, clenches onto the sheets, takes his time. He has no need to rush. 

He moves, gently. She is prepared, but not ready. His eyes flick over her, observing, taking in any clue something could be wrong. He finds no sign of distress, but finds no sign of pleasure either. Why won’t she nod, or speak, or rather do anything for that matter? She’s unusually silent, not looking at him, and a fissure begins to develop down the middle of his chest. Perhaps he made a mistake, perhaps this whole thing is so unbearably horrid and wrong and he should simply stop and leave and never speak of it again – until he feels a slight squeeze on his arm. He returns his gaze to her face, barely illuminated in the dark, but enough that he notices a little smile, a small, sad smile. His hearts swell, and he can’t bear staying still any longer, his desire to have her closer overpowering everything else. 

Her silence finally breaks as a noise escapes her. It’s not quite a moan, more like a sigh, but it makes him feel relieved either way, and it’s pleasing to his ears. He rocks, ever deeper, closer, nearer, and still gentle and careful. Her hands drop from his arms and embrace around his middle, pressing their bodies together. She can feel his heartbeats. His twin hearts thump out a rapid rhythm, pounding against his chest from the inside, strong and fast, keeping him alive. Sweat beads on his skin as he looks back at her and smiles. It’s a warm, pleased smile, yet for some reason, he feels he’s about to cry. How could an act of compassion leave them in such agony? 

They move together, her body responding eagerly to his every touch across her skin. It’s for him, to ease his suffering, and what he needs. Her body heat seeps into him, the temperature difference between them sending a shiver up her spine. He groans, narrowing his brows, his body falling over her a little faster. His impressive mind is whirling, coming apart at the seams. It’s clouded, hazy, something he would usually hate, but he’s so numb he can’t muster a care. His entire form feels the effects, tingling, burning, warmth. 

He stops, only for a moment, to fall onto his elbows, and brushes a gentle finger across her cheek, accompanied by a caring whisper of how brilliant she is. Now, she is the one who cries. She manages to stay silent, but the tears escape regardless, and she looks away from him. She doesn’t believe any of the wonderful things he tells her. Only in her sadness and shame does she hold on, promising herself this is helping him, and that the Doctor she saw before, dead-eyed, hollow, haunted, will be a distant memory before long. She cares too much. She’s fallen into such a humane trap, yet again, and all she can feel is bitterness. 

His smile is soft, warm, and desperate to comfort her while he continues, always slow, always careful. He turns his gaze to the wall where their shadows dance, melting into one another. How perfectly they move together. And God help him, how he has succumbed to the devil, laced with intoxication, the darkness retreating, his frozen hearts melting, and she is a fire, as flaming as her ginger hair. A furious fire that surrounds and engulfs him, and he melts, moans, and exclaims. 

Both grow sore, but they do not cease. Lazily, she kisses his neck, her hands press against his chest, and his lips find hers. They move faster, their pace escalating, and his legs begin to ache but they don’t stop. She throws her arms around his neck and their chests press together, so close, so intimate. Their hearts beat against one another, strong and full of life. She gasps, shocked at how powerful he can be. 

The end of the ordeal comes suddenly, but they do not rest. Instead, they continue to hold one another, injecting a kiss or two. They could stay this way for hours, locked in a warm embrace, his arms laced protectively around her. One of her hands rests against his chest, the other cupping his cheek as she gently strokes his face with her thumb. He gazes into her eyes, and she is relieved. There is a glow emanating from within them once more; what had been stolen from him has been reclaimed, at least for now. He will be alright. 

They lay there for an indeterminate period of time, listening to the whirr of the TARDIS, enjoying the company of the other. Their bodies are tired, weary, and spent, but they can’t sleep. At least, that’s what Donna tries to tell herself, until her eyelids begin to flutter and even her bones begin to complain. She starts to drift, and he smiles in amusement. He kisses her forehead, permitting her to sleep if she wishes, and ignores the grumbled response, though he’s fairly certain he heard “Spaceman” in there somewhere. He chuckles to himself, and is greeted with a weak swat to the face. That’d teach him to laugh at Donna Noble. Yet despite the warning, he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing again. 

With her scarcely realizing it, she quickly drops off to sleep, despite her original intentions. He slowly peels her arms off of him, taking a moment to brush some stray hair out of her face. He smiles a little as he pulls the covers over her. Despite the exhaustion dragging at his body, he feels the familiarity of life beginning to course through his veins again. He collects his clothes, though in no hurry, and crosses the room once again in near darkness. He pauses in the doorway, watching the light bathe Donna’s form. He doesn’t know how to thank her. But he’ll think of a way soon enough, as he always does. 

And as he closes the door, he whispers the words she will always deny. 

“You’re brilliant.” 


End file.
